The Man
by mini bagel
Summary: A story. Perhaps. Maybe it would be the ladder out of the rut he had seemingly dug himself into and couldn't get out of. A distraction from the emotions clashing inside of him.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own them? What do you mean I don't own them!?! Yeah, I don't.

* * *

A story.

Perhaps.

Maybe it would be the ladder out of the rut he had seemingly dug himself into and couldn't get out of. A distration from the emotions clashing inside of him. He would write a story, not about crime. Nor death. Two things he'd been in extremely close proximity to recently. Even more than normal. The man rubbed his weary eyes and began.

The typewriter clicked and clacked as the keys were forcibly pushed down, and his muse flooded back into him. And slowly the dark night crept out of sight and the revealing dawn slipped silently into the seat night had abandoned. The sun then entered center stage and illuminated the world, including the man and his typewriter. Still in the same positions that night had left them in. With the man still pounding the typewriter into submission, papers flying as the man replaced them when the old was filled.

Words. So many words. And he still wasn't done, he couldn't be done. Being done meant something, that he had completed something, that something was finally done right. An occurence that was rare of late.

An older man came in the front door and ran to the younger man. The younger man stopped his frantic typing and dropped his head into his hands. The older man placed his hands upon the other man's shaking shoulders and awkwardly comforted him. Words were exchanged and new lines formed on both men's faces as the hours crept by.

The sun waltzed with the clouds across the sky and day began it's retreat. And just as the sun tagged the horizon, red bleeding out, the older man rose from his chair.

He picked up two objects off the table that had seemingly been thrown there the day earlier and returned to the younger man, who had stood also. He placed both objects in the younger man's hands, and slipped out of the apartment. But not before relaying one last peal of wisdom before the door shut. The man stood there. So still, so very still. Then he looked down. In his left hand, a badge with a black band slipped snuggly over its middle. In the right, a gun with one bullet missing from the magazine.

One bullet.

A black band.

And the words of the older man, "It wasn't your fault, Tim.".

The man stood there. And the man cried.


	2. Chapter 2

Two men stood side by side.

Their attire, latex gloves and scrubs, would have seemed out of place had they been almost anywhere else but there, in the cool, sterile room. Even the two bodies lying upon tables, each sporting one bullet hole in their temples, their chests stitched closed in a Y shape, seemed almost commonplace there.

The older of the two men peeled off his bloody gloves and tossed them into the trash, the younger man mirrored him. The younger man opened his mouth, but stopped and closed it. Suddenly unsure about the question that had been surfacing in his mind throughout the day. The older man turned toward him,

"Something wrong, Mr. Palmer?"

"Doctor," he hesitated but continued, "What happened?"

"Ah, now that is a question! Senseless violence," he gestured to the young woman's body, "And the inability of mankind to feel empathy toward one another." He then gestured bitterly toward the man's body.

"Doctor?"

"Apparently Jethro's team had been assigned a probationary agent," he smiled slightly at seeing the younger man's raised eyebrows, and continued, "It seems the SECNAV had spoken to the director and pulled a few strings for a friend's daughter, though the arrangement was temporary."

"I bet Agent Gibbs wasn't too happy about that."

"I'm sure he wasn't." The smile lasted a moment longer, before vanishing. "They had been seeking a man who had suffered a psycological breakdown in Iraq and was honorably discharged. His friend had visited him, the man lost control and killed him."

"That's terrible. Wasn't he meeting with a psychologist? Or on any medication?" The older man's eyes turned icy and his features filled with disgust as he replied,

"His doctor said he had, 'Fallen through the cracks'. He hadn't attended another appointment after the initial one, and the fool didn't bother to try and draw him back, or investigate in the slightest."

"But...but...someone must have noticed. Someone must have cared for this man!" The younger man's face was in an expression of shock mixed with disgust as he gestured wildly at the man's body. The older man put a hand on the younger man's shoulder and continued.

"Jethro's team had tracked him down to a warehouse he slept in, the probationary agent was told to wait by the car while they secured the building and found nothing. Timothy returned to the car to make a call and,"

"The man had snuck around them." The younger man was beginning to put the pieces together, horror dawning in his face.

"Yes. He had threatened the agent and when Timothy arrived, put the gun to her head. He pleaded for Timothy to shoot him, or he'd kill her."

"Suicide-by-cop." The older man nodded solemly.

"Timothy tried to negotiate, but when he discovered the man would not stand down, he took the shot."

"Why is she dead then?" The younger man dreaded the answer, knowing what it would be but needing confirmation.

"Timothy hesitated. The man didn't."


	3. Chapter 3

_Just a waste of time. That's all this escapade was. Tim thought as he made his way back to the car. The man they had been looking for wasn't even there and this had been the only lead in days. Back to more frustration and an angry Gibbs. Then probably a stakeout to catch the guy when, if he returned. A sigh escaped him. With his luck he'd probably be paired with Tony._

_At least they'd be rid of the probie. Tim shook his head slightly. She wasn't really that bad at all, quiet and humble, she'd stayed silent during campfires and only chipped in when she'd formed a solid idea. And it was sort of nice to have someone who looked up to him. Not unlike Tony and himself when he first came to Gibbs' team. He then realized that she was his probie, if only for a couple days._

_And with that thought fresh in his mind and a slight smile upon his face he turned the last corner._

_And stopped._

_There he was. The man. And his gun. Pointed at the probie, his probie. Tim could feel his heart rate skyrocket and a rushing sound fill his ears; the man's shouting was drowned out immediately._

_Tim unconsciously drew his firearm and stepped foreword, his ears suddenly cleared._

_The man and his probie looked up as he drew closer. The man then aimed his gun at her head._

_"Federal agent! Drop your weapon!"_

_"Please. Just...just shoot me, please." Tim was thrown off for a second but quickly recovered._

_"Put down the gun sir, we can talk, we can help you."_

_"I'll kill her. Just shoot me. I kill my friends, and I can't live with that. Knowing that I've done something that terrible. That unforgiveable. I have to die." The man looked like he was going to cry, his eyes were dull like all the life had left them. A kind of resignation was the only thing in them._

_"Sir, please. You're sick, you're unwell, would your friend want this to happen to you?" Tim felt sick, in his gut he knew this would end badly._

_The man turned toward his probie and his trigger finger tensed ever so slightly. Tim knew he had to take the shot. The man turned toward him, desperation evident in his face but something else caught Tim's eye. That last spark of hope deep in his eyes. The spark that caught Tim's finger for a second._

_Only one second._

_Then he pulled the trigger._

_Two bodies slumped to the pavement._

_One the result of Tim's bullet. And the other, a result of one second's hesitation. In which the other trigger was pulled. And a life ended. Two lives._

_"No. No. No, no, no." This couldn't be happening. Two more deaths upon his head. How many more would die? How many more could he try to save where the result would be the same? Someone was calling his name and his phone was ringing. But he couldn't hear them. He was lost, falling into a fog of darkness, of guilt and he was suffocating in it. And suddenly it tore open as his eyes flew open also._

The afternoon sun beat down upon the bed where the man lay, breathing heavily.

The man took a deep breath as his sweaty face screwed up, as if trying to hold back the tears that threatened to come cascading down.

His ears picked up the sounds of an answering machine as another call was missed.

"Hi, this is Tim McGee. I can't answer the phone right now but leave a message and I'll get back to you."

Beep!

"Hey McGee. It's Tony. Listen, Abby and Ziva are really worried about you, just calling to see if you're alright. I've got to say I'm a bit worried too.

When you have the time, call me back. Or I will pick the lock on your door and barge in, maybe bring a few movies. Just..just call me back McGee."

Beep!

The man felt the tears break the surface of his shield and a few spilled out and down his cheeks. He shoved them deep within him and angrily brushed at the few that had trickled out.

He stood from the bed and walked to his desk. In a sudden rush of self-loathing he threw the papers off the desk, scattering them all over the floor. Then came the typewriter, which clattered loudly, pieces and keys bouncing off. Shaking the man from his outburst.

Tears now coursing steadily down his cheeks, he sat down and laid his head in his cupped hands.

Shrouding his face from the world.


	4. Chapter 4

The man sat there. Staring at the bookcase, but not really seeing it. His eyes were glazed over, in deep thought and in sorrow. A sound from outside the door aroused him from the memories that were troubling him and he listened cautiously, never moving from his position.

It was a sort of scraping noise and some clicks as metal came in contact with metal. He could hear the tumbler in the lock slowly moving. Saw as the lock on his door, turned ever so slightly. The man stood suddenly, his fatigued mind processing and then sending out signals.

Danger!

The man looked toward the desk where a gun and a badge had been placed a day ago. He stretched out a shaking hand for the firearm, but withdrew as if burned. A look of deep sadness tinged with a slight fear, crossed his face and he instead hefted the desk chair onto his shoulder. He turned to face the door as the lock turned a full circle and the tumblers aligned. He took a batting stance and waited.

A thump sounded outside the door. Then a second thump. A soft string of curses followed and then a voice,

"Hey! McGee! A little help here! Please?" The man sighed and carefully placed the chair upon the ground before opening the door to reveal a sight that would have been amusing normally.

An older man was hopping around on one foot, clutching the other in pain. A large box had been dropped and all the contents, a variety of DVDs, were dispersed across the hallway floor. The older man dropped his foot and looked up to face the younger man. His wide smile faltered only slightly as he surveyed the younger man, but then returned in full force.

"Ah, McGee. Look what I've got!" The older man quickly scooped the DVDs into the box and brushed past the other man into the apartment. "The best of the best! The movies that have passed the rigorous, demanding Dinozzo test." The younger man shut the door and turned back toward the older man, not a word said. The older man had clearly noticed this but was continuing to chat amiably to the unresponsive younger man.

"Let's see, we have 12 Angry Men, Goldfinger, Braveheart, The Maltese Falcon, The-" He peered up at the younger man who had just been standing there the entire time, an expression of frustration on his face. The older man set down the box and studied the younger man intently. The concern he had hidden earlier had crept into his features. "McGee," He began softly.

"No, Tony."

"C'mon man. You can't just shut yourself away. I came to help you."

"You picked my lock." The older man shifted uncomfortably.

"You weren't answering the phone." Now it was the younger man's turn to look slightly embarrassed. The older man continued, "McGoo, you know it's my job to look after you. You took her death pretty hard, that agent, actually her's and the core man's." He hesitated and then spoke again. Choosing his words very carefully. "It's not your fault, it could have happened to anyone of us."

"No. It couldn't of." The older man raised an eyebrow. "Gibbs would have talked him down, Ziva would have gotten him between the eyes. And you wouldn't have hesitated. I did, and two people are dead." The younger man sat down and lay his head into his hands.

"McGee, you can't blame yourself for this."

"Really?" Came the sarcastic, muffled response.

"Yes, really! Everyone makes mistakes, we can't save them all. I know."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. You just need to accept that."

"I...I can't. I can't let them die. That man...I almost couldn't shoot him, he was just sick. He needed help."

"We can't help them all either." The younger man looked toward the older man, desperately. Seeking some hidden wisdom, anything to lessen the guilt. But the man just stared back, looking far older than the younger man had ever seen him, the usual happiness and glee that seemed to emanate from him was gone. Replaced by pity and sadness. "It's part of the job. You need to accept that and move on."

"That's weirdly deep for you Tony." The younger man was trying to set up his defense mechanism again, but it was already crumbling. The older man recognized this and gave a small smile that didn't reflect his mood at all.

"I have my moments." The younger man tried to smile also but it just brought the suppressed tears closer to the surface. His shield was almost completely gone now. "Probie," The tears surged foreword and his shield gave into them.

"She was just a probie. She'll never be able to become anything more. She'll never have a team, never become a full field agent, never marry or have kids. That man will never get help or be able to get over his guilt." The younger man's face was screwed up in an effort to stop the tears from falling. He felt the older man place a hand upon his shoulder, which was all it took.

The younger man cried, the dam broken. And the older man stood beside him, a silent vigil over the younger man's mourning.

* * *

The soft slap that fell against the younger man's head wasn't unfamiliar, not in the least. But it was unexpected.

"Done?" The older man asked, though not unkindly.

"Yes." The younger man wiped away a tear, slightly embarrassed, but the older man didn't seem to notice.

"You know we can't save them all." Just a statement, not a question.

"I know." Came the whispered answer. "But every time I try and save someone, try and do the right thing, everything goes wrong."

"Man, McGee. You're a smart person, but sometimes you can be such an idiot!! How many times have you saved an innocent life? Or gotten information to take down a killer or a criminal? You're so wrapped up in trying to do everything without fault that you missed one very important detail."

"What?"

"You're only human." The younger man looked ashamed. "People are flawed, they make mistakes and they miss chances. They dwell on the past, when they need to be learning for the future." The older man said pointedly. "I bet I have a movie for that..." He trailed off and looked toward the forgotten cardboard box. The younger man hung his head staring at the floor, the walls, the kitchen. Anywhere but into the older man's eyes, which were currently staring at him. The younger man knew the older man was right.

The older man patted the younger man on the shoulder, "Before you accept anything else you have to accept that.". He then put both hands in his pockets and strolled to the door, "You really need to give me a key, I can't keep breaking in. Oh, and you can return my movies later." With one last smile he, and a look of concern he shut the door.

The man sighed, "Can't anything ever be easy." He commented to the empty apartment, or perhaps to some higher power that could let him take the easy road. Neither his apartment, nor the higher power commented back.

And he was left alone with his thoughts.


	5. Chapter 5

Last chapter all, thank you for reading.

* * *

It was raining. Raining was an understatement though; raindrops pounded the Earth like they had no other purpose.

Not an ideal day to gather but it didn't seem to deter the procession of people. They stood huddled underneath a rather large open sided tent, and in the middle of the group a coffin sat above a hole, waiting to be lowered down. It was open for one last time before being closed, before it met its final resting place on the other side of the now drenched grass.

Inside the coffin lay a young woman, she could have been sleeping. The coroner had done a good job with the hole in her head, and she looked peaceful. Her face held none of the fear and dread she had felt in the last seconds of her life, as a gun was pointed to her head and fired. The last thing she had seen were horrified green eyes. But her face didn't show that, as she lay inside the padded interior of the coffin.

A person came up and shut the coffin, lay a single rose on the top and stepped back. A grey haired man stepped up to an elderly couple who stood the closest to the coffin. He offered a few words of comfort before handing them a badge with a black band over its middle. A few men started lowering the coffin into the ground, and the tears began to flow, first from the elderly woman. Then from the elderly man as the coffin disappeared over the edge of the hole.

Their daughter was gone now.

The group dispersed steadily into the downpour until it was only the couple left. The older man glanced over his shoulder and saw him.

A younger man. Who stood in the rain, all alone, and watched the funeral. "Honey," His wife looked up, tears still running down her face. "That man, isn't he the agent? The agent who killed that bastard?" She looked over at the drenched man, without a coat or umbrella, standing so still as rain ran off of his hair and into his face.

"Yes, yes he is." She turned back to her husband and took his hand. She then took a red rose and dropped it into the hole, where her daughter now rested. The elder man squeezed her hand and then raised his other hand in thanks to the man, who stood silhouetted against the sheets of water.

The elderly couple then departed into the rain.

The man walked foreword until he faced the hole where his probie lay, so silent and so still. Regret passed over the man's face as the droplets of water rolled off of him and into the earth. He looked sadly at the top of the coffin and said the only words that seemed to fit.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I couldn't protect you and I couldn't save you." The man then promptly turned and melted into the falling raindrops.

* * *

It was still raining, hours after the young woman's funeral. A man stood by an open casket; a small tent shielded the casket from the rain, which poured endlessly. The man looked around, a decent sized tree stood next to the grave, and flowers were planted underneath it. Beautiful, in spite of the rain.

Inside this casket lay a man, but unlike the woman he did not look like he was sleeping. His face was blank, void of all emotion it held when he was struck by a bullet in the forehead.

An older man strolled almost casually up to the younger man's side and peered into the casket. He then gave the younger man a look, not of curiosity or contempt, nor concern. Just a look. A look that reminded the younger man that he wasn't alone.

"Boss."

"McGee." The younger man had the sudden urge to laugh, to force the older man leave. Maybe he'd be able to finally put both his grief and the body in the casket, to rest.

"Boss, I-"

"You paid for this funeral." The younger man paused before answering.

"He didn't have anyone else, he was a murderer to the world. No family or friends." The older man didn't answer, but the younger thought he saw a glint of pride in the man's eye. "I...I had to."

"No, you didn't. You chose to. That's what makes you a damn good agent though." The younger man gave a look of surprise and stared back at the older man.

"Boss, not that I don't appreciate you being here, but this is one thing I need to do on my own." The older man raised an eyebrow.

"Were you going to lower the coffin on your own?" The younger man flushed, that thought had obviously not crossed his mind. Together they shut the coffin and lowered it into the darkness lurking in the freshly dug hole. The older man lay a hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"My basement is always open. If you need a friendly ear. You're not alone, Tim. No matter how many times you try and convince yourself that you are." And he stepped into the rain and was gone.

The man sighed and turned back to the hole where the second answer to his guilt lay. "I would tell you that I'm sorry, but I guess it would be a bit redundant. I couldn't help you, and for that I'm truly sorry. But now you can finally rest." The man stepped back and let go. And he, like the elderly couple and like the older man, vanished into the rain.

Perhaps he would take up the older man's offer. A boat building lesson and a bit of bourbon were never amiss.

And for the first time in days, Tim smiled


End file.
